


All You Need is Love

by Lopithecus



Series: SuperBat Prompts [32]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 15:45:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14718987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lopithecus/pseuds/Lopithecus
Summary: Bruce is turned into a teenager and Clark has to deal with him. While doing so, Clark learns something new about the man he loves.





	All You Need is Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Subatlove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Subatlove/gifts).



> This is for [Subatlove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Subatlove/pseuds/Subatlove), who has been a wonderful friend to me. Subat, I’m sorry this has taken me so long. I know I said multiple times that I would get it done soon and then it never happened. I take full responsibility for that (and my work. I blame my work. ;P)
> 
> Also, I’m sure this ended up angstier than you had thought it would be (I’m sure you thought it would be a comedy piece) and I was originally going to do that but then… then this little plot bunny struck and I couldn’t get it out of my head. I’m sorry!!
> 
> I hope you all, and especially you, Subat, enjoy! ^_^
> 
> Prompt: Bruce being turned into a ~~18/19~~ (a/n: I made him a bit younger than this) year old again and Clark doesn’t know how to approach the situation due to him being the same age as his own son/as old as Wally Barry’s baby nephew in his eyes

Clark blinks after the young teenager who just pushed past him, yelling back at Alfred something about leaving him alone. Clark furrows his brows, rubs at his eyes, and blinks some more. After the shock wanes, Clark turns back to Alfred, entering the kitchen fully to confront the older man. “Was that,” Clark points in the direction the teenager had headed in, “Bruce?”

Alfred sighs, sitting down on a stool at the island. “That was, indeed, Master Bruce.”

Clark sits down in front of Alfred. “You weren’t kidding when you told me on the phone that there was a problem.”

“Yes,” Alfred begins. “As you can see, Master Bruce has been turned back into a teenager.”

Clark looks back in the direction Bruce had headed, still perplexed by the whole thing. He faces Alfred again. “Does he know he’s been,” Clark flails for a word to use, “de-aged?”

Alfred shakes his head, face downtrodden. “He doesn’t seem to know. As far as I can tell, he’s regressed to a sixteen-year-old boy in body _and_ mind.”

“Do you know what the last thing he remembers?” Clark asks.

Again, Alfred shakes his head. “Just before you came in here, Master Bruce was yelling at me about trying to get him to see a therapist.” Clark raises an eyebrow in question. Alfred sighs. “When Master Bruce was sixteen, his moods and whole demeanor seemed to change. After the young Master’s parents died, Bruce was extremely depressed and lonely but all that seemed to intensify around this age. Master Bruce became lost, self-destructive, and extremely angry. I had once offered him a chance to see a therapist so he could work through his emotions. Back then, Master Bruce had gotten angry at me for it and wouldn’t talk to me for week after. He never did end up going to see someone.”

Clark nods. He had no idea that Bruce had been that bad as a teenager. “Have you contacted anyone about this yet?”

“I’ve had Master Dick call Zatanna. She is on route as we speak,” Alfred informs him.

Clark nods again and stands. “In the meantime, I’ll go talk to him.”

Alfred stands as well, smoothing the front of his tuxedo. “Good luck, Master Clark.”

Clark smiles at the butler. “I’m probably going to need it.” He then turns and leaves the kitchen, heading in the direction that he knows is Bruce’s room. He wonders if Bruce still sleeps in the same bedroom as he had when he was just a teenager. When Clark gets to the door and listens inside, his answer is concluded to be yes. He can hear Bruce inside, scuttling around as the teenager paces. Clark knocks and waits for an answer.

It comes immediately. “Go away, Alfred!”

Clark clears his throat. “I’m not Alfred.” There’s silence on the other side of the door and so Clark takes that as the only invitation he is going to get. When he steps into the room, a book goes flying past his face, barely missing him. Clark stares at Bruce in shock.

The young man is glaring at him. “Did I tell you you could come in?”

“Uh…” Clark steps into the room more, closing the door and picking up the poor innocent book off the floor. “No but I didn’t really think I was going to get a formal invitation.” He looks at the book cover, spine almost falling apart. _Meditations_ by Marcus Aurelius. It’s a book Bruce has read many times to the point of wear and tear. Clark flips the book over, reads the summary, and turns it back over to set it gently on the shelf that is hooked to the wall. “I came to check on you.”

Bruce’s eyes are narrowed on him, looking like a younger, more ferocious version of the Bruce Wayne Clark knows. “Are you a therapist?” Clark shakes his head but Bruce is continuing, his anger prevalent in the way the teen’s eyebrows furrow and jaw tightens. “I told Alfred I don’t want to talk to some dumbass counsellor.” Bruce reaches over and throws a glass vase. It shatters right next to Clark’s head, Clark feeling the small shards bounce off the side of his face. He’s sure there are glass pieces stuck in his hair now.

“Careful,” Clark says gently, pretending to not be fazed by this act Bruce is putting on. “You could have seriously hurt me by doing that.”

Bruce crosses his arms. “I don’t care.”

Clark frowns in confusion. He never thought this would be how Bruce was as a teenager. He never suspected that Bruce was an angry, hormonal, ball of fury who didn’t care about anything at all, including other people’s safety. He had always thought Bruce was always caring of others’ wellbeing, no matter Bruce’s age. “Bruce-”

“I said I don’t need your damn help!” Bruce picks up another object, this time a snowglobe, and goes to throw it.

Clark quickly raises his hands, placating and surrendering. “Okay, okay.” Bruce stares at him for a long time before finally setting the globe down. “Listen, I’m not a therapist or a psychologist,” Clark begins. “My name is Clark Kent. I’m a friend of the family. That’s it.”

Bruce’s eyes are still narrowed on him, distrust radiating from them. “I don’t remember you.”

“It’s… it’s been a long time,” Clark tells him, taking a cautionary step towards the teenager. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Bruce’s face immediately turns into a scowl and the young man turns around, starting to rummage through his drawers. “Why does everyone have to ‘make sure I’m okay’?” Bruce mocks. “I’ll be fine. I keep telling them I’ll be fine.”

Clark frowns more, listening to Bruce grumble in annoyance and how convinced the kid sounds about that statement. But Clark knows Bruce won’t be okay. That he’ll grow up into a depressed man who dresses like a giant bat, going out and risking his life every night, pushing his body to the limit with sleepless nights and long hours. “Bruce,” Clark starts, low, but he is interrupted by another outburst from Bruce.

“Damn it, Alfred!” The drawer is pulled out of its place in the dresser and thrown onto the floor, its contents spilling all over the place. Bruce kicks the drawer aside and starts to comb through the clothes that were once in it.

Clark watches him closely. “What are you looking for?”

“None of your damn business,” Bruce responds automatically. The teen stands in a huff, crossing his arms and tapping his foot.

Clark takes another cautious step towards Bruce. “If you tell me what you are looking for, maybe I can help you find it?”

Bruce turns towards Clark, looking him up and down with a glare. “Alfred took them from me. I already know this.”

“How?” Clark asks.

Bruce turns away then, pursing his lips and looking towards the floor. The teenager shifts his weight, his whole demeanor changing to being nervous and shy instead of angry. “Because he doesn’t want me to have them.” Bruce scratches at his arm and Clark follows the movement.

Breath that Clark doesn’t need is almost sucked out of his lungs when he sees the small traces of scars there. He watches in shock as Bruce glances around the room, still searching for the object of the young man’s desires. Clark swallows thickly and opens his mouth to speak. “Razors.” Bruce’s head turns to him, the teenager making defiant eye contact. “Is that what you’re looking for?”

Bruce diverts his eyes, purses lips again, and stands up straighter. “What’s it to you? You said you’re not a therapist. It’s none of your business.” Bruce walks away, goes into the ensuite bathroom, and shuts the door more gently than Clark would have expected.

Clark stares after the kid, chest filling with a heavy sadness. He goes and sits on the edge of Bruce’s bed, elbows perched on his knees and head in his hands. Clark had always assumed those scars on Bruce’s arms were made from fights as Batman. He never gave it a thought that they were too small and too perfectly lined up. Looking up, Clark uses his x-ray vision to look into the bathroom. Bruce is standing there, doing nothing besides digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands. Clark wonders when Bruce stopped hurting himself.

With a deep, determined breah, Clark stands up and heads to the bathroom, knocking. When he doesn’t receive an answer, he slowly opens the door. “Please don’t throw anything at me.”

Bruce is watching him, face no longer looking furious or annoyed. The teenager looks bored, almost curious, at Clark. “What do you want now?”

“Sorry,” Clark shoots the kid a small smile. “I’m still duty bound to make sure you’re okay.”

Bruce rolls his eyes and groans in annoyance. “I wish you people would just leave me alone.”

“Bruce, listen to me,” Clark starts, going to sit down on the toilet. Bruce doesn’t face him, feigns ignoring Clark. “You shouldn’t be hurting yourself like that.”

“What’s it to you?” Bruce snaps.

“I care about you, Bruce, and I don’t like seeing you hurt like this,” Clark answers him, watching closely. Bruce looks uncomfortable, like a corned animal that is about ready to kill in self defense.

“Why?” Bruce asks. “Why do you care about me? You don’t even know me.”

Clark hesitates, not knowing what to say. He can’t tell the kid that he knows him as an adult. Bruce will just laugh at him and not believe a word he says. “I guess it’s just in my nature to care.”

Bruce is looking at him, face unreadable. It takes a while for Bruce to relax some, sighing and sitting down on the edge of the bathtub. “I just miss them, my parents that is. I miss them every single day, Mister Kent. And I have nightmares of that night. I can’t get rid of them. I lose sleep because I’m afraid to go to bed. I’m afraid to…” Bruce trails off, diverting his eyes to the tiled floor.

Clark leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Afraid of what?”

“To feel,” Bruce whispers then suddenly stands, exiting the bathroom hastily. Clark follows, worried about the young man.

He had always known Bruce was afraid of his feelings, kept them buried deep within himself, but he never once thought they would cause the man to hurt himself when he was younger. Was this the beginning of Bruce keeping his feelings hidden, locked away within himself? By the time he gets into the bedroom, Bruce is in the middle of the room, facing away from Clark, and shoulders shaking slightly. Clark has never witnessed Bruce crying before.

Clark approaches Bruce, reaches out a gentle hand, and places it softly on the boy’s shoulder. Bruce flinches away, whirling around with narrowed eyebrows in anger. “Don’t touch me!”

Clark, once again, holds his hands up, palms out. “Sorry.” Bruce quickly wipes the tears away, hardening himself towards Clark. “I just…” He doesn’t know what to say, how to comfort the teenager. If Bruce were an adult, he would pull the man into his arms, kiss his temple and tell him that everything will be okay. But he can’t do that this time. Bruce doesn’t remember who he is, is in an underaged body now, and is currently off limits.

He sees Bruce swallow, relax, and the teenager goes to sit on the edge of his bed, where Clark had just been moments ago. “I don’t want to feel this way. I don’t want to harbor this feeling inside me forever. But it doesn’t go away, Mister Kent. It’s never gone away.”

Clark pauses then walks over to sit next to Bruce. “Then why not see someone? They can help you, Bruce.”

“Because I’m fine by myself!” Bruce yells, his anger coming back. “I don’t need someone to tell me how I’m feeling, how hurting myself is bad for me and that I should find other outlets. I know how I feel, I know I shouldn’t be hurting myself, but-” Bruce cuts off, tears filling those blue eyes once again. “I don’t need some stranger to barge their way into my life to tell me what I should and shouldn’t be doing and feeling. I can handle it.”

“But you obviously can’t,” Clark says and he knows it’s a mistake the moment Bruce’s eyes snap to his in anger.

Bruce stands, turns on Clark. “Can’t? I’ve been dealing with it myself, _alone_ , for years! I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself!” The teen wipes at his eyes again, paces away from Clark, and doesn’t acknowledge him anymore.

With a tired sigh, Clark stands. “There are a lot of people in this world who care about you, Bruce.”

“Like who?” Bruce asks quietly, sounding dejected and alone.

“Alfred for one.” Clark walks slowly to Bruce. “Me.” He stands right behind the teenager, not touching, but letting his presence be known. “Others that you may not know about.” Clark doesn’t bother listing off Bruce’s children. It would only confuse the young man. “All of us care so much about you, Bruce. We love you.”

Bruce turns, looks up at Clark. Clark hadn’t even realized the height difference is more prominent now that Bruce is younger. “How can you when you don’t know me?”

Clark smiles at him, small and warm. “You just have to trust me.”

“I… I don’t trust people,” Bruce tells him.

Clark nods. “I know.”

Suddenly, Bruce surges forward and wraps his arms around Clark’s torso, squeezing and burying his face into Clark’s chest. Clark can feel his shirt starting to get wet but he doesn’t draw attention to it, not wanting to embarrass the young man. Instead, he wraps his own arms around the slim figure, pulling Bruce closer to him. He runs a hand through Bruce’s hair, comforting him without words.

Soon, Bruce stops crying and pushes away from Clark, cheeks aflame and eyes not making contact with Clark’s. “T-thank you, Mister Kent.”

Clark nods and is about to say something else when there is a knock on the door. Both men turn to see Alfred poking his head through. “Master Clark, our _guest_ is here.”

Clark faces Bruce. “You going to be okay?”

Bruce gives him a smile, forced as it may be. “I will be now.”

Clark nods once more and then follows Alfred out. They head towards the lounge and when they get there, Zatanna is sitting on the couch, tea in hand. She stands to greet Clark. “I hear there is a magic problem.”

“Bruce has been de-aged into a teenager,” Clark informs her. “Can you help?”

Zatanna gives him a smirk. “Of course, I can. Just give me a few minutes.” With a wink, she leaves, heading towards Bruce’s bedroom.

Clark turns to Alfred. “Alfred?”

“Yes, Master Clark?” Alfred answers.

Clark sits down in the spot Zatanna was just in. “Did you know Bruce hurt himself when he was a teenager.”

Alfred sighs heavily and sits down next to him. “Indeed I did. That was one of the driving forces that made me try and persuade the young lad to see a psychologist.”

“How come you never made him go?” Clark asks.

“Because, Sir, both you and I know that Master Bruce would have made zero progress if he didn’t want to be there.” Clark looks at his lap, not being able to argue with Alfred on that point. “Master Bruce was adamant about not seeing a therapist. Besides,” Alfred reaches out and places a hand on Clark’s shoulder, “I truly believe Master Bruce has gotten better since then.”

Clark frowns. “But he’s still depressed. Still self-destructive.”

“Yes,” Alfred agrees. “But he’s also better. Look around him, Master Clark. He has a _family_ now. He accepts me as family now, he has the boys and,” Alfred smiles at him, “he has _you_ , Master Clark.”

At hearing that, Clark smiles. “He does.”

It takes ten minutes for Zatanna to come back down, adult Bruce in tow behind her. “Our fearless leader is now back to his regular age,” Zatanna announces. “That will be a hundred dollars for my time.” Alfred looks at her unamused and Bruce gives her a warning glare. “I’m only joking. Jeez, tough crowd.”

Clark goes to her, shakes her hand. “Thank you, Zatanna.”

“Anytime, Clark.” Then, in a puff of smoke, she disappears.

“Clark,” Bruce says, catching Clark’s attention. The man angles his head towards the stairs, indicating Clark should follow.

They go back to Bruce’s room, Bruce shutting the door behind them. “What is it?” Clark asks.

Bruce takes a deep breath, sits down on his bed, and pats the side. Clark sits down next to him. “I think we should talk.” Clark stays silent, waiting for the man to continue. Clark hates things that start with ‘we should talk.’ “I remember everything that happened when I was turned into a teenager.” Bruce chuckles. “Sorry about throwing things at you.”

Clark laughs, short and sweet. “I had no idea you were such an angsty teenager, ready to fight everything and everyone.”

Bruce laughs again, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Yes, well, with teen hormones pumping through my system, it made that time of my life… difficult.”

Clark’s smile falls, remembering what he had learned about Bruce. “Bruce, about you hurt-”

“I don’t want to talk about that,” Bruce interrupts him.

“I feel like we should,” Clark says.

Bruce sighs, bows his head. “What can I say, Clark?” Bruce raises his head, looks Clark in the eyes. “Thou art now ready to die, and yet hast thou not attained to that perfect simplicity: thou art yet subject to many troubles and perturbations; not yet free from all fear and suspicion of external accidents; nor yet either so meekly disposed towards all men, as thou shouldest; or so affected as one, whose only study and only wisdom is, to be just in all his actions.”

Clark blinks at him, confused. “Am I supposed to understand what that means?”

Bruce sighs, smiles a little in amusement. “It’s a quote from the book.” Bruce gestures towards the book that he had thrown earlier while being a teenager, _Meditations_ by Marcus Aurelius. “What I mean is, that my past is my past. I can’t change it, I can only accept it, and I definitely don’t need to justify myself.” Clark swallows, looking down at his lap. Bruce reaches out, touches Clark’s chin and makes him look back up, makes him make eye contact. “I don’t do that anymore, Clark. Haven’t in many, many years. Long before I became Batman.”

“Because you changed your outlet to all the pain you’ve been feeling to being Batman,” Clark says.

“And is that a bad thing?” Bruce cups Clark’s cheek. “I know it’s not healthy. I never claimed it to be. But you’re a superhero too. Powers or no powers, what’s the difference? We both save people. It’s better than what I was doing, isn’t it? Hurting myself, drowning in self-pity. Batman is a huge step forward in my eyes.” Clark shrugs. “Plus, with you, I can only keep improving. Clark,” Bruce smiles, “I haven’t felt this happy in a very long time and that’s your doing. You make me happy, Clark.”

“You really doing better?” Clark asks for confirmation, doubt crawling its way into Clark’s mind.

Bruce nods, pulling Clark closer. “So much better.” Bruce kisses him, hand moving to the back of Clark’s head. When they pull back, Bruce smiles warmly at him. “I love you, Clark. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

Clark reaches up and cups Bruce’s face. “I love you too, Bruce. I worry about you, you know?”

Bruce chuckles and stands, patting Clark’s knee. “I know. And that’s one reason why I love you. You care about me, Clark. Not a lot of people actually do.” Clark opens his mouth to say something, protest to such a notion, but Bruce cuts him off. “Now! Let’s go get Alfred to make us some dinner. I’m starving.”

Clark watches the man he loves and cares about and worries about oh so much, walk out of the bedroom door, feeling his chest fill with warmth towards the man. He’s glad Bruce seems to be in a better place now, that Bruce’s family, including Clark himself, has been able to make Bruce happier. With a smile plastered to his face, Clark gets up and jogs after Bruce to catch up, wrapping his arm around the man’s waist as they make their way towards the kitchen, sure to always be there to brighten Bruce’s day.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I’m sorry it’s probably nothing what you expected, Subat. I hope you enjoyed anyway!! :)


End file.
